If you are a regular reader of my blog then you may well know that Toni Morrison is one of my favourite writers.  I own all of her books (in matching white editions): I cherish her books; I ration them out.  To date I have read six of Morrison’s nine novels and now Love may very well be my new favourite (Beloved is a masterpiece but I was very pleasantly left in awe by Love).  You may also know that my edition of Love is one of my all-time beloved possessions; my boyfriend gave me the newly published hardback on our first Christmas together and wrote a touching inscription inside.  What you may not know is that I LOVED Love.

I read along with three favourite bloggers, Claire of Kiss a Cloud, Steph of Steph and Tony Investigate and Nymeth of Things Mean a Lot; you can read their eloquent views by clicking on their blog links. One of the things I love most about co-reading is when each individual focuses on different aspects of the novel and their personal connection to it.  Conclusively, we all embraced this novel; personally, I loved it with every fibre of my being.

Am I alone in gaining great satisfaction -and butterflies in my tummy- when different strands of narrative come together so perfectly in the last third of quarter or fifth of a novel? So completely and utterly perfect do things slot into place at the end of Love that I sighed with contentment and joy; the resolution, the unveiling of secrets, the realisation that the title is more apt than first believed… all cemented how much I adored this novel.

I savoured Morrison’s lush prose, her beautiful imagery and succinct expressions; I have always known that Morrison was an exceptionally talented writer but her writing is exquisite in Love, often making me gasp. The storyline and themes are every bit as powerful as I have come to expect; the plot itself is simplistic but there are so many threads woven in and out of the text to make it an impressive tapestry of characterisation and universal thematic appeal.  Even though Love is, to date, Morrison’s penultimate novel, I think it is a very good one to start with, especially for those readers intimidated by Morrison; not quite as devastating as her other novels, Love does have one scene of exceptionally uncomfortable violence (a gang rape) and a couple of disconcerting relationships, but I cannot stress enough how much Toni Morrison’s writing is worth the -at times- dark subject matter.

Love has a sometimes confusing non-linear narrative with multiple narrators but it is so expertly crafted.  The Cosey women were and are all obsessed with Bill Cosey; their love is obsessive, all-consuming and the root of a lifetime of jealousies, resentments and hurt.  Cosey is dead and only appears in the novel through reminiscences, all showing him in a different -and sometimes unfavourable- light.  Heed (the Night) and Christine are the surviving Cosey women, living together in acrimony, each feeling betrayed by the other from childhood; their relationship is the crux of the novel.  Hurt, betrayal and the power of memory -and its unreliability and subjectivity- are what makes Love so emotionally-charged and moving.  Evocative and emotional, Love has me reaching for the three unread Morrison novels on my shelf; I want to gorge myself on them instead of ration and then reread them over and over again.

Many thanks to my lovely co-reviewers.